I’m tired of being sad and having no clue as to why I am this way, so I’ll just write about the happy bits of me and why I smile. I dance when I’m alone, when the music gets just right and I’m sure no one’s watching. It’s okay to feel lonely. I feel lonely and unloved more times than I should. But I’ve come to terms with that. I used to not like the idea of it, but once I became comfortable in my own skin (if that’s what you want to call it), every wave of depression feels like a cool breeze on a Sunday afternoon. I’m reading a book that says we are the beliefs and thoughts we think and believe in. So if I say that I’m happy a thousand times, does that make it true? Well, that’s what I’ve been hoping. 

It’s good to have goals, and the only goal I’ve had recently was to keep myself happy. Obviously, since I’m writing this, I failed. It’s even become more of an illusion than a goal, but I accept it. As is, because there’s no turning back in those moments of life. You can’t live your life for someone else, it’s called your life for a reason. Happiness only happens when I say so, so starting now, I’m saying so. We bring into this world the kind of kindness that we’ve dealt with, so when I fake a smile, all the words that follow become fabricated. Although it’s not reality — fake it til you make it, right?

The book also said to do more things that make you lose track of time, so I decided to dedicate more time to my writing again. More often than not, I will compare myself to others. I’ve tried stopping because I know that I am just preaching to myself that I’m not good enough when I know deep down that’s not true. My subconscious mind has taken over. I don’t write like anybody else, I write like myself. Different versions of myself, of course. There’s the pessimist version of me, who just wants to complain and shout. There’s the dreamer, who believes anything is possible. There’s the romantic, who never actually felt the love she talks about but wishes on all her stars that one day, she’ll find it. There’s the wanderlust, who has never really had a place to call home. There’s the friend, who would do anything to not disappoint those who surround her. There’s the version of myself who doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing and she loses herself about every other day just to re-find herself again. I don’t think like anyone I know — not even my parents who gave me life. There’s just me and my laptop or a pen and paper with words flowing out of my heart because it’s getting too crowded in there. We’re just trying to find redemption inside lovers, friends, and pink-painted sunset skies.

Happiness is what we make it, so if I say it exists, then let it be. Listening to those give my guidance — that makes me happy. For so long they have surrounded me and kept me strong. And kept me alive. I am strong because of them. And they know who they are. They kiss the promise by their pinky finger that as long as I’m here today, tomorrow and every day following will be filled with great love. I will keep writing these letters, if not for anybody else, but for my future self who will read them. I wonder often about how much I’ll change. Change is inevitable so I won’t say I’m not gonna change. We all do, in one way or another. I’m the kind of person that snaps a picture of the sky while driving, because I’m reckless and I want to savor the moment for my children and their children one day, and hey, I’m still alive. And I’ve got a secret to share with you. You can be a 100 years old and still have the sweetest smile, you can be in your 20s and have a soul heavy enough to sink the Titanic, but if your life isn’t your life, you’ll never be fully content. Life is strange. And it can be really intense sometimes, too. We live our youth to buy pretty things — that’s why we’re always broke, right? Then when we reach our golden years, we try to buy more time, but here’s the thing: time waits for no one. The wrong turn will break you, a simple kiss will turn your thoughts into poetry, and a life full of self-hate is a road that needs constant validation.

I want to be my own way out for once. For once, I want to save myself. I want to be my own lover. My own theme song. My own poem. My own story of kindness. I’m not perfect, this is no secret, but when I look around, I realize nobody is. I’m tired of daydreaming, I want to build instead. Build me back up. Build my life. Build my dream. Build my love, so that way, I can never blame anything on the doubt I’ve collected in my head. You can’t be who you want to be if you’re still having the same thoughts from last year. You can’t change or heal in the right way if you’re not willing to break a few pieces of your heart. The clutter inside our minds and our hearts often match the attitude we give off. So like a quote, or a poem, or a sweet bedtime story, I will be happy. If I repeat it enough times, I will be happy. I just want to be happy because I want to feel joy, does that make sense? I want joy because I want to feel and enjoy the things I’ve always loved doing but gave up the last few months. I want to escort negative thoughts out — that way I’m left with only the good. I want to love myself enough to see a brighter, better day. Because I know it gets better. I’m a true believer in time heals all. But I can’t change the world if I don’t change myself, right?

If I repeat it enough times, then it’s real, right? I will be okay. Sadness is a crucial emotion because without it, being delighted and euphoric wouldn’t feel like dancing when no one’s watching. Be yourself — there’s beauty in the intensity of it all. I want to be glad I woke up today that it’ll drown out my depression with white noise. I want to give my poetry the immortality to always bring a smile onto the faces of those that love who I am even if I’m a bit flawed. Because I know at end of the day, you’re the only one sleeping in your bed, and you’re the only one who’s going to determine if you’ve got enough room to breathe. So please . . . just breathe.

And if that gets too hard, persevere.

And keep on breathing.

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